The President's Shadow

by Brad Meltzer

  “Have you ever seen this before?” I ask, pulling a folded sheet of paper from my pocket. It’s two color photocopies—both sides of the flattened penny they found in the corpse’s hand.

  “I just told you a man was dead,” Mina says testily.

  “I heard you. That’s what I’m trying to help you with. Now have you seen this?” I ask again.

  Mina eyes the Lord’s Prayer on one side, then the other with the owl clutching the plank, plus the banner that reads HL-1024. “I know they’re worn for good luck,” she replies.

  “What about the owl or the HL-1024? That mean anything in the Secret Service world?”

  “What would this have to do with the Service?”

  Before I can answer, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I shouldn’t pick it up. The thing is, it’s not my regular phone. It’s the old flip phone that Marshall gave me two months ago—a clone of the one A.J. uses to make private calls. It’s supposed to let me listen in, but over the past few months, the phone hasn’t rung once. Until now.

  “I need to take this,” I tell Mina, flipping it open and hitting the mute button.

  There’s a click on the other line and I press the button to take the call. For the first few seconds, there’s nothing but silence. Until…

  “We got another,” A.J. says in his familiar Tennessee drawl. “Stick number two.”

  Stick? What’s he mean by stick?

  “You sure?” a familiar female voice asks. Francy.

  “They just waved off his copter. He’s headed back. You need to get here,” A.J. adds.

  Francy goes silent. There’s a click as he hangs up. Message received.

  “Beecher, did you hear what I just said?” Mina asks. “If you know something about Tanner Pope…”

  In my right pocket, my other phone vibrates. My real phone. Caller ID shows King’s Copiers, a copy shop in Maryland that closed three years ago, if it was ever really open.

  “Two phones?” Mina challenges as I pick it up. “Since when are you so popular?”

  I hold up a finger, focusing on my cell. “Beecher here.”

  “It’s me,” A.J. says in my ear, careful to never ID himself. “We found another.”

  “Another what?”

  He pauses, annoyed. “Another body part. Get your ass here now. We found a second arm.”

  32

  Twenty-nine years ago

  The Atlantic Ocean

  I know where we’re going,” Julian said, his stomach pressed against the back rail of the boat as he coughed the last bits of vomit out into the ocean. “I know…”

  No one heard him.

  That’s not true. They heard him. But in any group of kids, the first thing they found was weakness. Whatever Julian said, they weren’t listening.

  “I’m telling you: Cuba. It’s Cuba,” Timothy said, holding what looked like a spyglass to his face. It wasn’t a spyglass. It was the scope they’d pulled from a rifle.

  Ten minutes ago, Timothy, Nico, Alby, and the rest had pooled their money and bought a half hour of time with the scope from the guard, a marine who couldn’t have been two years older than they were. It let them see six hundred yards, but at this time of night, there was nothing to see but black ocean.

  “Cuba? It’s the Bahamas,” said an Arkansas kid with an oval face and a mullet that he didn’t think was a mullet. “This far south, only thing here is the Bahamas.”

  “And Cuba,” Timothy countered.

  “They’re not sending us to Cuba,” Nico said, his strong baritone ending the argument. Kids found weakness first. They found leaders right after that.

  “There’s still the Cayman Islands. And Haiti,” Alby called from the back left corner of the deck, where he was practicing the knots Colonel Doggett had taught them.

  No one replied. Not even the ones lying on their backs next to him, trying to get some sleep. They hadn’t thrown him in with Julian yet, but as they crowded around Timothy, still fighting for a look through the rifle scope, Alby knew it was just a matter of time.

  Forty hours ago, when the trip first started, the young recruits had been guessing Hilton Head and Savannah. A recruit from Atlanta said there was a submarine base in Georgia. All they knew was the land on the right meant they were headed south. It wasn’t until noon, when the burn of the salt water had them licking their lips and they saw the scaffolding for the rockets at Cape Canaveral, that they realized they were in Florida.

  “Miami,” Timothy had said, reigniting the speculation.

  “There’s an air force base south of Miami,” Nico agreed.

  It was a good guess too—until they zipped past the Miami skyline and the boat didn’t slow down. On their right, as a late-summer darkness took the sky, ports, bridges, and white beaches became island after unidentifiable island. By midnight, they were in the Florida Keys, licking their lips harder than ever.

  At 2 a.m., spotting the lights of Key West—the southernmost tip of the United States—they knew they had to be close. There was nothing south of that. They were tired and hungry, and most hadn’t slept in nearly forty hours.

  Yet as they blew past Key West and the lights of the docks faded into the wavy ink, the twelve newest members of the Plankholders fell silent.

  “Have a nice night,” the marine guard said, heading down to the galley and leaving them his rifle scope.

  “Can someone tell me what the eff is going on?” Arkansas Ovalface asked, feeling the sway of the boat and glancing around at the black sky. The only thing darker was the ocean. All around them, there was nothing in sight. No lights. No landmarks.

  “This is bad,” Nico added, staring down at the compass on his watch. “It says we’re still going southwest.”

  “Can’t be,” Arkansas said.

  “Toldja,” Timothy said, happy to have the rifle scope to himself. “Cuba.”

  “It’s not Cuba,” Julian yelled out, though again, no one turned his way.

  “Why do you keep doing that?” someone called behind him. Following the sound and keeping his grip on the boat’s back rail, Julian turned to find the only kid skinnier than himself.

  “You know they don’t care what you say,” Alby added, sitting Indian-style on the deck. “Why keep trying?”

  “Because I’m right.”

  “Fine. Then tell it to someone who’s actually listening,” Alby said, tossing his rope up across the back rail and continuing to practice his knots.

  As Julian’s red hair whipped into a swirl, he didn’t say anything. Next to him, Alby tied another knot.

  “Julian, that’s the cue that I’m listening.”

  “Yeah…no…I know,” Julian stuttered, kneeling down, but still studying Timothy and the others.

  Julian clicked his two front teeth against his two lower ones. “They think it’s Cuba, but there’s something else out there,” he whispered. “This isn’t the first time the government’s made this trip.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “It’s true. I read it in one of my books. The first time they came here was a century ago. They brought all the prisoners with them.”

  “Whattya mean prisoners?”

  “The greatest of them all,” Julian said, his red hair matted by a burst of wind as the boat continued to slice southward. “The men who killed Abraham Lincoln.”

  33

  Today

  Crystal City, Virginia

  Elbowing open the door of his SUV, Marshall scanned the underground garage. He was the only one here. By design. Most people parked on the first basement level, or the one below that. Marshall always rode down to the fifth sublevel, until there were no other cars in sight. No one to stare at him or see him coming.

  By now, anyone else would be celebrating. In his gloved hand, he held the sheet of paper the President had given him back at the hospital.

  There it was in fat black letters: The SS Needle’s Nest. The name of his father’s ship, the first clue in figuring out what’d happened al
l those years ago, and the real reason Marshall had spent these past few months trailing Beecher for the President.

  For sure, Wallace had given Marshall everything he wanted. Yet as he shoved open the red fire door, entered the fluorescent-lit concrete room, and headed for the dull silver elevator, he also knew that U.S. Presidents, and especially Presidents like Wallace, aren’t in the business of giving people everything they want. In fact, what they usually give you is the very opposite of that, presenting you with just enough to make you feel like you owe them something in return.

  Marshall knew the danger that came with debt. Especially when that debt was to a President. It was that exact thought that stopped him in his tracks as he spotted the call button for his loft on the twelfth floor. Every morning before he left, Marshall wiped the button clean. Now it was marked with a muddy smudge. Like a fingerprint.

  In his right pocket, he put a hand on his switchblade. From his left, he pulled out a key fob, waving it at the small black rectangle set just above the call buttons. There was a reason he’d picked this building. No doorman to walk past, few tenants to stare at you…and a simple way to tell if anyone had dropped by while you were gone.

  As the elevator rose, Marshall calmly bit off his gloves with his teeth. A jigsaw of light purple scars marked his hands. He extended all ten fingers in a wide stretch. For burn victims, as the healing begins and scabs shrink, the skin tightens. To counter the stiffness, every few hours Marshall stretched the skin on his knees, elbows, and fingers.

  “Fuuuuh,” he growled, fighting the stiffness and pain that would never go away. It hurt even worse when he punched something.

  Still eyeing the fingerprint, Marshall tried to tell himself it’d been the diplomat’s kids from the seventh floor. They were always playing games and pushing buttons. But as the indicator above the door climbed from the ninth floor, to the tenth, to the eleventh, Marshall didn’t let go of his modified switchblade.

  At the twelfth floor, the elevator doors rolled open, revealing a small carpeted entryway and Marshall’s front door. The door was slightly open.

  He checked the lock. Still intact. Pro job.

  His breathing slowed. Marine training took over. Pulling his knife, Marshall popped the four-inch blade. He’d had it modified years ago, adding two grooves that ran down the center of both sides. When a normal knife entered someone, skin and muscle sealed around it. With the grooves, the blade was now what they called a bloodletter.

  Inching forward, Marshall didn’t arch the knife up by his shoulder. He held it at waist level, pointing outward, where it would do far more damage to vital organs. With the tip of the knife, he edged the door open.

  Something moved on his right.

  There. From the kitchen.

  Her hair was brown now. Clearly a wig. But there was no mistaking those eyes. Ginger brown. And as crackling as her father’s.

  “Nice to see you too,” Clementine said with a crooked grin.

  34

  Where’re you going!?” Mina calls out as I stride toward her office door.

  “It’s my boss. Work emergency,” I tell her, halfway into the hallway as A.J. barks an address through my phone. He wouldn’t call me unless he absolutely had to. That alone tells me there’s more going on than another found body part. “Thanks for the help with the pin!” I call back to Mina.

  She yells something, but as I pass the display case of Fallen Heroes, a galloping noise echoes above me. I follow the sound up—eight flights up to be exact—to nearly the top of the modern glass staircase, where a group of suit-and-tie agents plow down toward the lobby.

  They move in a quiet, tight unit. As they get closer, from their ages, I’m guessing senior staff. No one’s panicking, but in Secret Service headquarters, if you’re taking eight flights of stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, someone’s pulled the emergency cord.

  “Believe me, I agree completely,” a voice with a warm Virginia twang says. I can’t see him at first. He’s blocked by the group, but as they circle down the stairs and reach my floor, he pulls out in front, an enormous dark-skinned black man, clearly in charge.

  Fine pinstriped suit. Gold pen that he grips like a sword in his left hand. Round tortoiseshell glasses soften the fact that he’s a walking, lumbering mountain. Except for the American flag pin on his lapel, he looks like a linebacker, but his calm, commanding presence makes me want to jump in line behind him and follow him down the final flight of stairs.

  “Director Riestra, your car’s this way,” one of his aides calls out as they cross through the lobby.

  Director. No surprise. If A.J. found another body part, the biggest of big guns are getting called in. The head of the Secret Service. That still doesn’t explain why he’s calling me. There’s something they’re not saying.

  At the sight of the big boss, two agents leaving the cafeteria freeze in place. So do the others walking the hall. Agent by agent, they all play Red Sea as Riestra plays Moses.

  From where I’m standing, diagonally behind him in the corner of the lobby, Director Riestra can’t see me, but I see him. He’s about to leave the lobby, just a few steps past the cafeteria. Lifting his gold pen, he scratches his neck. And then, for no evident reason, Director Riestra glances over his shoulder, looks my way…and locks eyes.

  My chest caves. It happens so fast, I’m not even sure I saw it right. Does he know me?

  “Making friends with the boss now?” Mina asks behind me.

  I jump at the sound. I didn’t realize she’d followed me.

  “What’re you talking about?” I say. “He doesn’t know who I am.”

  “I’m starting to think I don’t know who you are either—or what you’re really doing here,” Mina says. “But let me tell you…I’m going to find out.” Mina looks back at her director, staying silent. “I’m trying to help you, Beecher. I really am. But maybe it’s best if you leave now.”

  She has no idea how right she is. I dart through the lobby. The director’s already gone, but if what A.J. said is true—if they found a second body part and this is another inside job—I’m betting Director Riestra and I are headed to the exact same place.

  35

  Please, before you say anything…” Clementine began.

  “Get out of my house,” Marshall said loudly.

  “Can you please just—?”

  “Why’re you here? What’re you doing?” he shot back, still holding his knife as he headed toward her in the kitchen.

  “What’s it look like? I’m dying.”

  Marshall heard the break in her voice. She was gaunt and pale. Her words sounded garbled, as if her tongue was swollen. Something was wrong with her mouth. He didn’t care. “Do you think that what works on Beecher works on me?”

  “Marshall, can you please just put the knife down?”

  “Where’s your father? He here too?” Marshall asked, striding through his 1990s-era IKEA living room like he was hunting. Shoving open the door to his bedroom, he went through to the bathroom, where he slapped open the shower curtain to make sure the apartment was empty. He never ran. Never panicked.

  “Marsh, it’s just me,” Clementine said.

  “Marshall. They call me Marshall now,” he said, rejoining her in the kitchen, still scanning the apartment. “I haven’t been Marsh since seventh grade.”

  “That’s fine. But whatever you’re thinking, this isn’t—”

  “Last time you came to help, your father escaped from the insane asylum and you disappeared with him. The time before that, you killed an Archives employee.”

  “That was an accident!”

  “You also shot one of the President’s aides in the neck. Want me to go on?” he challenged. “Are you with White Eyelashes?”

  “Who?”

  “Bald. Has an air of private-school jackassiness. White eyelashes.”

  “Ezra. His name’s Ezra.”

  “Ezra. I see.” Marshall glared at Clementine. Unlike most people, she looke
d him right in the eyes. Not at his candle-wax skin or his face. He’d been stared at enough to know the difference. He still didn’t lower his knife. “Ezra’s working with your father, isn’t he?”

  “Marshall, you have no idea what’s going on.”

  “Just tell me why you’re here. I know you always want something.”

  “I want you to put the knife down.”

  The knife stayed where it was.

  “I get it. You have no reason to trust me,” Clementine said. “I just need you to listen.”

  “Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “You will. Please. Just two minutes,” Clementine pleaded. “I think they’re about to kill Beecher.”

  36

  Most people walk right past it. The storefront door is boarded up, all the windows are covered with newspaper. There’s even a sign taped to the glass that says

  Contractors

  Use left door, ring door bell there

  In this trendy newly gentrified neighborhood, it almost fools me into thinking I have the wrong address.

  But here’s the thing: One, I know this address. And two, I know what used to be located here two hundred years ago.

  Back in 1996, this building at 437 7th Street, NW, was set to be demolished, until a local carpenter was sent inside to make sure no homeless people were lingering. As he walked into the front room, something fell from the ceiling onto his shoulder. Looking up, he noticed a letter sticking out from a crack in the ceiling.

  In the attic, he found stacks of Civil War–era newspapers, piles of old files, and thousands of mottled letters. There was also a sign for Barton’s Missing Soldiers Office.

  Over a hundred years ago, this redbrick building held the third-floor office where legend Clara Barton helped track down missing soldiers from the Civil War, long before she founded the American Red Cross.

  Back then, Barton got over sixty-three thousand requests from families looking for lost loved ones. She and a small staff helped find twenty-two thousand of them, just by writing letters. It’s one of the main reasons that, to this day, the army issues dog tags to people like my father.